No More Learning

UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT BILL-
BOROW.

TO THE LORD FAIRFAX.

See how the arched earth does here

Rise in a perfect hemisphere !

The stifiest compass could not strike

A line more circular and like,

Nor softest pencil draw a brow

So equal as this hill does bow ;

It seems as for a model laid,

And that the world by it was made.

Here learn, ye mountains more unjust.

Which to abrupter greatness thrust.

Which do, with your hook-shoulder'd height^

The earth deform, and heaven fright,

For whose excrescence, ill designed.

Nature must a new centre find.

Learn here those humble steps to tread.

Which to securer glory lead.



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TnE POEMS.

See what a soft access, and wide,

Lies open to its grassy side,

Nor with the rugged path deters

The feet of breathless travellers ;

See then how courteous it ascends,

And all the way it rises, bends,

Nor for itself the height does gain.

But only strives to raise the plain.

Yet thus it all the field commands,

And in unenvyVl greatness stands,

Discerning farther than the cliff

Of heaven-daring Teneriff.

How glad i\ui w^eary seamen haste.
When they salute it from the mast I

By night, the northern star their way

Directs, and this no less by day.

Upon its crest, this mountain grave,

A plume of aged trees does wave.

No hostile hand does e*er invade.

With impious steel, the sacred shade ;

For something always did appear

Of the Great Master's terror there,

And men could hear his armour still,

Rattling through all the grove and hill.

Fear of the Master, and respect

Of the great nymph, did it protect.

Vera, the nymph, that him inspired.

To whom he often here retir'd.

And on these oaks engrav'd her name, —

Such wounds alone these woods became,—



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OF MARYELL. 9

But ere he well the barks could part,

Twas writ already in their heart ;

For they, 'tis credible, have sense^

As we, of love and reverence^

And underneath the coarser rind,

The genius of the house do bind.

Hence they successes seem to know.

And in their Lord's advancement grow,

But in no memory were seen.

As under this, so straight and green ;

Yet now no farther strive to shoot,

Contented, if they fix their root,

Nor to the wind's uncertain gust,

Their prudent heads too far intrust.

Only sometimes a flutt'ring breeze

Discourses with the breathing trees,

Which in their modest whispers name

Those acts which swell'd the cheeks of Fame.

" Much other groves," say they, " than these,

** And other hills, him once did please.

" Through groves of pikes he thunder'd then,

" And mountains rais'd of dying men.

" For all the civic garlands due

^ To him, our branches are but few ;

" Nor are our trunks enough to bear

" The trophies of one fertile year.